


Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where Have You Been?

by shewhoguards



Category: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened to Tacroy after Christopher vanished from the Temple of Asheth, and what happened to the cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where Have You Been?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dlemur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlemur/gifts).



> Thank you to the beta reader from IRC!

It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened in the Temple of Asheth, and yet some large part of Tacroy wanted to deny it anyway. The boy went in, then after a short period there was a sudden uproar inside the Temple, and.. no-one came back out. Still, he waited, cursing himself for a fool the whole time,

Hadn’t it been him suggesting that Christopher might be able to transport something live to start with? Reckless idiot. He might be required to work for the Wraith but no-one had required him to report that back – no-one had known about it in order to ask it of him! He couldn’t blame Eleven for this; this was all his own curiosity.

Longer than was reasonable, far past the time that anyone was paying him for, Tacroy kept waiting. He waited until the world faded to a fog around him, guilt roiling in his stomach sickeningly as the certainty he was waiting for nothing increased. When the Arm of Asheth marched back out and took up their posts he didn’t have to be told it was unreasonable to cling to hope, and yet..

And yet he’d seen so many impossible things that Christopher could do already, it still felt as though there was no way he could have come to serious harm. The child had been able to wander freely between worlds without ever making a mark to find his way back; he had the ability to carry objects back from a spirit journey; he could strengthen Tacroy’s own ability to travel – something that until now he would have sworn had come to a plateau long ago. Little wonder that faced with that kind of power Tacroy had rediscovered his own childish sense of devilment and allowed himself to wonder just what might be possible.

But.. Christopher was a child and meant to take stupid risks. Tacroy was an adult and meant to think like one. As his ability to hold the connection finally broke, he sat up on his own bed and felt like a murderer.

-

The word back from headquarters was that Christopher was injured but recovering. Mordecai couldn’t quite believe it, no matter how much he wanted to. He had no illusions that his status was anywhere near high enough to prevent him from being told convenient lies; if they believed he might try to leave out of sheer guilt they would say anything to prevent it.

It wasn’t as though he had the choice of leaving anyway. For a week he lived with the idea that his irresponsibility might have killed the child – and powerful as he was, Christopher _was_ only a child. Self-blame left him sleepless, and unable to eat. Chrestomanci Castle tried to summon him for a meeting and he told them he was ill. Then he felt worse at the sudden influx of concerned notes asking about his health. It was not, after all, as though he could explain to anyone there what he had done – even the most sympathetic listener would turn away in revulsion before doing their jobs and reporting him. And the Wraith might pay well, but he did not keep a group likely to listen with any kind of patience to a man needing to pour out his sins. This was something he had to live with alone, and he did so miserably.

It was a week before he convinced himself to leave the flat for a walk, hoping that somehow the fresh air might clear his head. The air did nothing, but the sight of a Asheth temple cat walking calmly down a London street as though he owned it was enough to make Mordecai stop dead, drawing many disapproving frowns from the people who had to navigate around him.

How unlikely was it that a cat might make it between worlds without assistance? Even taking into an account that temple cats were mysterious and powerful in their own right, it seemed far more likely that Christopher had brought him here. Which meant that Christopher had to have been alive to do the bringing. After a week of unremitting misery, Mordecai felt a weight lift from him. Yes, he had been stupid, he had been irresponsible, but he had done nothing – yet – that was not fixable. It was like learning to breathe again after a week of holding his breath.

Still, he did not try to convince himself that it was anything more than his own lingering guilt that made him attempt to rescue the creature. Talking to the cat reasonably about getting him somewhere safer got Mordecai ignored – and a few more odd looks from passers-by. Yes, people could talk to their pets, but not in _public,_ not in _London._  

In the end it was a case of a hamper and brute force – both physical and magical – and by time he’d succeeded in that Mordecai would quite happily have handed the thrice-blasted creature over to the Wraith in full knowledge of what would happened to it. Any lingering concern he might have held towards a poor innocent creature torn away from its world vanished at the point where he came very close to losing an eye to a claw. Never mind the dangers of the Arm of Asheth, Christopher was likely very lucky to not have been killed by the damned cat.

He took it back home while he tried to work out what to do with it. Of course, the best course of action would have been to return it to the Temple, but that was far beyond Mordecai’s powers. Second-best had to be Chrestomanci Castle – at least no-one was likely to be able to get in there to steal it for dissection.

By the time he’d called them to explain he was on his way, there was a familiar and unpleasant smell emanating from the hamper. In a normal cat it might, just possibly, have been down to fear. In an Asheth temple cat it was almost certainly revenge. Mordecai tried to convince himself that it was a deserved punishment and reminder not to be so irresponsible next time. It was certainly something that proved to be a constant reminder; in the end there was no amount of magic that would rid that corner of the stench, even months later.

-

Eyebrows might have been raised at the castle when he arrived with the hamper, and left barely minutes later without stopping to talk. After a week barely communicating, such behaviour might have been considered.. strange. However, it didn’t take long for people to find what they thought might be the explanation for such a hurried exit, not when they actually opened the hamper.

“It destroyed spells they’d been working on for _weeks –_ they think it ate them somehow,” Florian told him later. “It got into Gabriel’s wardrobe and urinated  over most of his clothing – straight before he had an important meeting, so you can imagine his reaction. We  finally shooed it outdoors after it climbed the curtains and leapt onto poor Rosalie’s head. Honestly, Mordecai, where did you _find_ the dratted animal and why on earth did you decide it needed to be inflicted on us?” And then at Mordecai’s silence, he added, a little tartly. “You certainly left fast enough anyway, before we could work it out. I thought an Asheth cat would be more.. statesmanlike. Not like this.”

He wasn’t the only one to express his displeasure over the matter. Legally the cat might be protected, but that didn’t mean anyone had to like it. Mordecai had several phone calls over the next few days, all expressing their displeasure at the new household member. He tolerated it stoically. He certainly deserved that they should be angry with him about _something,_ it was hardly their fault that they had chosen the wrong thing.

-

A few more days and he was called in for another job. There was Christopher, as large as life and as healthy looking as ever. Had Tacroy been able to touch him, he might have crushed the boy in hugs, so great was his relief at seeing him alive and well. Christopher, for his part, seemed bemused by the fuss and entirely unaware that for an entire week Tacroy had called himself a murderer.

Later, Tacroy would be able to admit that he should have called a stop to it right there, and damned the consequences from Series Eleven. He should have found the strength from somewhere  to tell Christopher that he should stop doing this and walk away, before any more harm could be done to him. But Christopher was so unaware of the danger, so blithely happy to go on doing whatever he was asked, that Tacroy suspected that he would walk through the gates of Hell itself if his uncle suggested it. And, a small voice whispered in his mind, if he left there was nothing to stop the Wraith from hiring someone far less scrupulous who might just lead him there.

Was that true, an honest wish to advocate for an innocent child, or was it a mental smokescreen to hide from himself that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, disobey his Series however much he wanted to? Tacroy couldn’t answer that, even to himself. All he could do was promise himself that there would be no more risks. Next time he might not be so lucky, and however he tried to expunge himself of guilt the life of a cat would never be a fair exchange for that of a small boy.


End file.
